


Kerenja

by carpesidera



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, F/M, Poldark AU, Tamlin the Tool, feyre as demelza, rhys is a sweetheart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 05:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8476483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpesidera/pseuds/carpesidera
Summary: Kerenja- Cornish for LoveTHe Poldark/ACoTaR cross over no one really asked for. Tamlin is Ross, Feyre is the beautiful Demelza and Rhys is the upstart George.





	1. Chapter One

The first-time Rhys saw the girl she was nothing but a wisp in the shadows, sweeping and cleaning around the room as Tamlin screamed bloody murder about some mining ordeal. She had flinched at the raised voice and as she turned her head he saw it. The bruise that took over half her face, turning her milky white skin into a blooming pattern of purples and blues. He knew he should look away, what Tamlin wanted to do with his servants was not his business and it would do him no good at interfering after all he was just a banker, a no body raised up by an uncle ruthless enough to survive the Cornish society.

\------------------

The Second-time Rhys saw her, she was on Tamlins arm. Dressed in a red dress that turned every single man’s eyes, and over half of the taken men’s eyes as well. She was a vision from his dreams. Her unruly hair that had been left unkempt the first time was held up high in a fashion that would have rivalled the women’s in London’s. He wanted to rush to her side and demand a dance but society and protocols said other wise and he stood his ground, watching her ever closely. It was in that ball room as Tamlin danced with his Maid that he heard the rumours.

“A serving wench!”

“He married his maid?”

“Gold digging with a copper miner, who would of thought!” 

The rumours circled the room, everyone having a say behind gloved hands and fans. As Rhys watched Tamlin ignore the panicked look on Her face he wanted to screw society and screw protocols. In all the whispering and gossip no one had dared even mention her name, calling her every name under the sun bar her god given name. He watched his rival leave the girl alone, whispering something in her ear then head towards the gaming table. This was his moment and Rhys a man who many had always said was an opportunist took his opportunity. With three quick strides, he was by her side.

“Would you like to dance?” it was her first offer for the night and she shyly accepted.

“Forgive me My Lord, I am not very good.” Her voice sounded like how an angel could have sounded, it reminded Rhys of his home so far south towards Lands’ End that it made him ache to hold her close. But even he would not over step that boundary with another man’s wife.

“I am no Lord, but I am your humble servant My dear and don’t you worry I too am not a very good dancer. Most women here know not to dance with me in fear of breaking a toe.” 

She laughed at him as the music started, a waltz, Rhys thought god was smiling down at him or possibly the devil grinning up. His hand on her waist he could feel her tiny body underneath the many layers of material and corset. And contrary to her disclaimer she danced beautifully, rarely looking at her feet and smiling softly at him.

“I remember you.” She said, “From when I was just a maid. You were nice to me.” Rhys didn’t think his heart could get any bigger.

“I’m nice to very few people, only those I like.” She smiled bigger then.

“You do not like my husband? Because you are not nice to him. He says you an opportunist. And a Scoundrel.” Her accent was thicker as she talked of her husband, as if filled almost with fear.

“I am both those things Darling and no your husband and I will never see eye to eye.”

“why?”

Because he hit you Rhys wanted to scream instead, “Because he is old money and I am new.”

She tilted her head, a curl of hair falling into her eyes, he gently tucked it up for her, “Well even if Tam doesn’t like you, I do.”

The pair fell into a comfortable silence, lost in calm serenity of dancing together. For just a moment Rhys completely got that h was holding another man’s wife.

The song ended and they should have parted, Rhys should have found another dance partner and She should have gone back to Tamlin but they stayed holding on to each other.

She opened her mouth as if to say something when a roar erupted through the hall.

“Feyre get here now!” Tamlin had re-entered the hall with a look of pure murder stretch across his classically handsome face.

Feyre jumped from his arms and almost ran to her husbands outstretched hand, she looked back and with a look of pain mouthed sorry to the Banker, left alone on the dance floor.

“Feyre.” He whispered, her name tasting already like a distant memory on his lips.

\----------

The third time he saw her, was not as nice.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the night of the Poldark season two finale I have been inspired! This is written for my dear friend Pia, who is a friend in real life who has read my fanfiction and not teased me mercifully like I would if I was her!

The third-time Rhys saw Feyre, it was before a storm. On the moors of Cornwall, she stood, the wind whipping violently at her dress and hair which had long since fallen from its fastening.

He had ridden out to check his tenants were alright, and that everything had been sealed shut before the clouds rolled in but in the distance, he had seen her, like at the Ball his eyes found their way to her with no encouragement from his mind that knew so much better.

His stallion had no wished to go any further towards the storm, threw him off and with a mild limp from the fall and some curse words towards the horse he did truly love, he trudged up through the heather and undergrowth towards her.

“Feyre!” he called and called, trying to get her attention but the wind carried his voice away, leaving behind little more than a soft whimper of sound. She moved further away from him, towards the dreaded cliff top. Mist from the crashing waves below surrounded her. If it had been a moment in time, in a painting it would have taken Rhys breath away from its beauty but since this was a moment in time happening in reality it took Rhys breath away in fear. He ran faster, against the howling and unforgiving wind.

It felt like years from the moment he fell from his steed to when he was finally in arms reach of Feyre.  
Finally, as he called her name, his throat now raw, she turned to him. And if the young Banker had any breath left in him it would been taken at the sight of her.

The beautiful face that had smiled so broadly at the Ball was ruined, with a black eye over her left side, flowering out with dark purples and blues that against her pale wet face looked almost like an oil painting and her lips, that he had wanted too much to kiss only weeks before, her beautiful lips were swollen, and bloody. He swore and saw her whole-body flinch at the sound, rocks sliding underfoot as she almost falls.

“Fuck Feyre,” he pulled her back from the ledge, her feet still dangerously close the edge. She looked up at him, “please, leave me alone.” He didn’t know if she had whispered it or if the wind had taken away her voice.

He grabbed her wrist, careful not to leave any bruises and dragged her from the cliff face. She fought him and kicked like a wild horse. He swore more, at her, at the wind but mostly he cursed the gods to curse her husband. He dragged her as far as he could before they came to the small mining cottage, it was run down and empty after a few to many cold winters.

She stopped fighting him when she realised he was taking her to shelter. They stood facing each other, the width of the whole cabin between them. Rhys concentrated on his breathing, deep breath in and out. To stop the vision of red he was seeing every time he looked at the women he loved.

She stood staring at her hands, wringing them over and over again, from her unbound hair the sound of droplets echoed over the stone. 

“What happened to your face?”

She lifted an eyebrow, “Why did you save me?” She asked back. Rhys really wanted to laugh but instead a dry huff left his throat.

“Because I am a decent human being, or maybe because I for some reason care for you. Obviously more than your husband does.” He stepped forward, removing any idea that he was going to let her go without an explanation.

“He is mad at me. I asked him if he had had an affair with Ianthe, and he did not like me asking.” 

“He hit you because you asked?”

“He hit me because when he said yes, I slapped him. Gave him a bloody nose, so you know, I didn’t go down fighting.” 

She laughed at that, and grabbed Rhys hand.

“Why did you save me?” she asked again.

She looked him in the eye, even with the bruises and blood that covered the beautiful delicate face, Rhys wanted nothing more than to kiss her and hold her forever.

“Because someone like you doesn’t deserve someone like him. You deserve to be cherished and loved and if I can do that every time I see you, at Balls, in shadowed rooms or on cliff faces before a storm I will do it till my last breath. Because even though I barely know you Feyre I think, no, I KNOW I love you. More than anything in this world, even more then my own bloody reputation.”

She stepped back from him, though their fingers were still entwined.

“Take me home, Rhys, take me home.” 

“To Fenten?” she shook her wild locks.

“No, take me back to yours.” Rhys wanted to rejoice and laugh and dance and any other form of outward expressions of joy but instead looking at Feyres exhausted face he took her in his arms. 

“Of course Darling.”

They walked back to his estate together, weathering the storm before ending up by the fire. He stripped off his jacket and a dressing gown was brought forward for his guest. They sat together in silence, with their hands still intertwined they watched the fire for hours, listening to the storm raging through the night.

Rhys knew he should have worried about the complications and waves this would cause but as Feyre fell asleep on his shoulder, her face already looked better after the salve he had put on her himself. 

He could not careless.


End file.
